


Until the Wolves Are Away

by FreshBrains



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, POV Isaac, Peter Hale is an unlikely mentor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:46:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac had a threshold.  There was only so much of that hatred, that red poison, that his body could take until something snapped and it drained out of him, evaporated into exhaustion and restless sadness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until the Wolves Are Away

Isaac wanted to believe he was important to the pack.

Everyone else had a role, a niche. Everyone else played a part.

Derek was the leader; taking charge when things got messy and occasionally making them slightly less messy while wrangling up his betas by their scruffs and tossing them away from danger. He was one confused son of a bitch, but he laid down his life for his pack on the daily.

Erica was the point woman. She had the quickest mind and the fastest bite, always hammering out the details and getting the job done almost before Derek had to tell her what to do. She was the one who made sure everyone else was on their toes, no matter if they came across alphas or hunters or anything else that made Isaac’s skin crawl.

Boyd was the muscle. He was fearless when it came to fighting—slamming into him was like slamming into a freight train head-on, and once a werewolf tried attacking him, they didn’t go back for seconds. Boyd never, ever got tired; he just kept pushing until his pack was safe.

The leader.

The point woman.

The muscle.

_So what the hell am I doing here?_

It kept Isaac up at night when he tried to sleep, either under the stars outside his old house with the “For Sale” in the yard or on the couch at Derek’s dark, creepy loft. 

_What the hell am I doing here?_

He wasn’t particularly strong or fast or clever. He flinched when something came towards him ( _every damn time_ ); he hated being alone in the dark where he couldn’t see the moon. His social skills were perfunctory at best and he covered his head in protection whenever anyone so much as looked at him with displeasure in their eyes.

_I’m the weak point in a strong pack._

_I’m useless._

*

He, Scott, and Stiles got drunk once in May, before everything went to total shit, hanging out in Stiles’ basement while his father was on duty. 

None of them were having any fun and they all hated each other a little bit just for being more miserable than the last—Scott was fighting with his mom, Stiles was fighting with his dad, and Isaac was fighting with Derek, even though the thought of comparing Derek to his dad was laughable. Derek, a solid wall of muscle that transformed into a beast on the full moon, was a kitten compared to Isaac’s father.

(But he’d rather get clocked in the head with a dinner plate than hear _you need to try harder, Isaac_ one more time.)

“I’m pretty fucking useless, aren’t I?” Isaac mumbled into his plastic cup, turning it around in his hands to see the faded logo emblazoned on the side.

Stiles bobbed awake where he was passing out on the couch. “You’re not useless, shut up. Don’t bring down the cheerful vibe we have going here.”

But Scott was completely awake, and for a drunk werewolf, completely clear-eyed. “Hey, why would you say that? Don’t say shit like that.”

“But I am!” Isaac laughed, wondering if he could make it from the sofa to Derek’s place without vomiting somewhere along the way. “The pack would be better off without me. I should just go omega.”

Scott shook his head. Going omega was a death sentence, and Isaac knew it, even through his bewildered, alcohol-scented haze.

Isaac chalked up the whole conversation as a pity party the next day when he woke up face-down on the carpet, staring at Sheriff Stilinski’s black shoes.

When he got back to Derek’s loft, the place was empty and he could sense that the rest of the pack was together, without him.

It hurt, but in that moment, Isaac felt like he deserved it.

*

Isaac spent a lot of time alone during the summer after Erica and Boyd went missing.

It was different without them, even though he always felt like the odd man out when he slept on the same mattress as them or drank out of the same beer bottle as them. There was the physical ache of longing, of losing a pack member, and Isaac was going through some kind of fucked-up withdrawal that made him want to sleep for weeks. Every time he reached out, he expected to touch one of them and only felt air.

Two weeks after they disappeared, Isaac found Derek sitting cross-legged on the floor at the old Hale house, a cardboard shoe box sitting opened in front of him. Derek knew he was there, but he didn’t say anything.

Isaac carefully stepped closer and saw what was inside the box.

A purple cotton tank top, the kind a girl wore under a sweater or blouse, and a faded white men’s undershirt, both stained with dried blood, stiff and black.

“They’re dead, aren't they?” Isaac asked, his voice soft despite the panic that rose hot in his throat. “Derek, are they dead?”

Derek sat perfectly still, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his face a blank slate of complete and utter loss. “I would have felt it. I would know if they were dead. I would know.”  
Isaac felt tears prick his eyes. He felt something, a pain on either side of him where Erica and Boyd had been for the last nine months, two ghosts that trailed him wherever he went. “Derek, are you sure? I feel like…I don’t know…”

“Come here,” Derek said abruptly, and grabbed Isaac’s arm. Isaac didn't know when he started crying but when he woke up, his face was hot and tight and his throat hurt and he was curled up in Derek’s lap like a child, Derek’s arms wrapped tight around his body.

They stayed like that for a long time, and then they never spoke of it again.

Derek kept the bloodstained shirts.

Isaac could smell them a mile away.

*

In late June, Peter and Derek almost killed each other in the loft.

Isaac stayed huddled in the bathroom underneath the sink, waiting for the crashing to stop.

_“Nobody wants you here, Peter! Why can’t you understand that?”_

A body hit the wall; plaster rained down onto the concrete floor.

_“If you couldn't keep blondie and the big guy in line, how the hell are you going to take care of the last one?”_

There was the unmistakable sound of a collarbone cracking, sweet as a piece of celery snapped in half.

_“Isaac isn't going anywhere; he’s getting stronger every day!”_

Glass shattered against the metal door.

_“Face it, Derek, you need me around, you’re fucking this pack up and you have no idea what it means to be an alpha.”_

Another bone breaking—this time bigger, a leg maybe.

_“Oh, and you do? I actually have a pack, you don’t have shit!”_

The exchange went on for hours, to the point where Isaac crawled out of the bathroom and snuck into the kitchen, sitting on the countertop and eating from a stale box of cereal.

Derek and Peter were having what his grandmother would call “a domestic.”

And it was about him.

Isaac didn't know what to think of Peter—in fact, he rarely thought about him at all. Peter stayed away most of the time and when he showed up, it was always tense. And as much as they all loathed admitting it, Peter was the one who knew more about werewolves than any of them. He had facts, data, mythology and statistics. He helped them run fast and fight longer. He taught them how to hunt and stay in a group in the woods. 

He was an asshole, sure, and a creep who liked to antagonize and pit them against each other for fun, but Peter Hale was smart. They needed him around.

As Isaac sat on the counter, Peter strode into the kitchen, shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows and his hands covered in blood.

“Did you kill my alpha?” Isaac asked through a mouthful of cereal.

“Relax, kid, we were just roughhousing. Not like he’s doing you a lot of good anyways.” Peter turned on the sink and started slicking water up his arms, splattering the basin orange.

“He’s helping me. I can control my shifts sometimes, and I’m getting stronger.” Isaac didn't know why he was justifying himself to Peter Hale, but he was oddly defensive of Derek.

“Yeah, well you look like a scared little puppy looking for an ankle to bite half the time,” Peter said, and as he turned around to dry his hands, Isaac landed a solid, loud slap to Peter’s jaw. He immediately yanked his hand back like he’d been burned, and shrank in on himself, expecting a blow in retaliation.

“Sorry…sorry, I didn't mean it,” he murmured, twelve years old and pissing his jeans in the corner of his bedroom again, every bit as much of the puppy Peter said he was.

But Peter didn't move, or say anything. His heart rate didn't speed in anger. He tilted his jaw towards the light and Isaac’s hand-print faded from a bruised blue to red and back to normal, like nothing had ever happened.

“You’ll have to try harder than that, Isaac,” Peter said softly, a smirk playing at his lips. He grabbed Isaac’s hand, his grip hot and wet, and Isaac flinched away, but Peter didn't loosen his hold. He turned Isaac’s hand over to look at his palm. It was red and shiny from the slap, but Peter pressed his thumb to the center of his palm and then there was just pink skin.

Peter took his pain away.

“Why did you do that?” Isaac asked, suddenly ashamed.

“You've been through enough,” Peter said simply, wiping his hands on a crumpled tee shirt lying on the counter. 

“Bullshit. Why do you care?”

Peter set him with a steely glare, sending a shiver down Isaac’s spine. “Because your pack isn't doing so hot and you have an incompetent alpha. And I’m sick of seeing kids die and disappear in this town.”

Isaac often forgot that Peter wasn't just a complete creep—he was a damn strong werewolf who probably lost his own children in the fire. Isaac was used to seeing him covered in dirt and smirking at Derek, telling him what he was doing wrong or pointing out all of his shortcomings before disappearing for weeks. But with Peter standing in the kitchen, his hair a sweaty mess and his tee shirt splattered in Derek’s blood, he looked like an alpha.

But he wasn't an alpha anymore. He was a murderer. He was a manipulative asshole who hurt Lydia so bad she disappeared from Beacon Hills right after Jackson first shifted.

Peter scared the shit out of Isaac. But Isaac was used to fear. Fear was familiar.

“You know, Isaac, Derek babies you. You’re his firstborn, after all,” Peter smirks, and Isaac turns red. “He may be training with you, but he’s certainly not _challenging_ you.”

“And you think you can challenge me?”

Peter grabbed the box of cereal from Isaac’s grip and took a handful, leaving bloody fingerprints on the cardboard. He winced at the stale food and tossed the box on the floor, scattering Rice Krispies all over the bare concrete. Without answering Isaac’s question, he gave him a clap on the back and said, “Come on, we’re getting something to eat.”

“What about Derek?” Isaac asked, getting up to follow Peter.

“Don’t worry about Derek. Do you like Chinese?”

As Isaac watched Peter walk towards the door, his back muscles bunching underneath his shirt, his stride confident, he came to a realization.

Peter wasn't scary.

Peter was _exciting_.

*

After Peter took him out to eat the first time, Derek’s protective instincts flared, and Isaac felt the heat of Derek's gaze on the back of his neck whenever they were in the same room together.

“Where are you going?” Derek asked, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.

Isaac paused, dropping the sweatshirt he was shoving into his bag. “Out…?” It came out like a question, and Isaac realized with a start that Derek was technically his guardian and technically had the right to know where Isaac was going. 

It was the first time he’d exercised that right, though.

“Where?” Derek was trying to be calm but Isaac smelled his anxiety, heavy and smothering.

“I’m going to Scott’s house, Derek. I go there every Tuesday night.”

Derek’s eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “Since when?”

Isaac threw up his arms in frustration. “Since we decided to be normal friends and play Call of Duty on Tuesday nights! What is going on with you, anyways?”

“What’s Call of Duty? Is that dangerous? What aren't you telling me, Isaac?”

Isaac rolled his eyes. “God, it’s like you've been living in the middle of the woods for a year or something.” 

Derek gave him a look that clearly said _I don’t like your sass_ , but before he could respond, Isaac slung his bag over his back and said, “I’ll be back before midnight, don’t wait up.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Derek said, and before Isaac could protest, he opened the door and Peter stood in the hallway, his hand raised in mid-knock.

“Why are you taking Isaac out for Chinese food?” Derek’s voice came out in a growl, but at least his eyes weren't glowing yet.

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Hello, nephew, have I intruded on something?”

“Usually. Isaac, put your coat on, it’s cold outside. I need to talk to Peter.”

Isaac buried his face in his hands. “Derek, what the _hell_ is happening right now?”

Peter made his way inside. “You do know that it’s June, right?”

“I asked you why you took Isaac out to dinner. Why did you take him without me after we fought? If you want to be a part of this pack, you know better than to think that is how a pack operates.” He was right. Even Isaac knew that when packs fought tooth and nail, they ended the day as a unit.

Peter sat down on the couch, his arms spanning the back cushions. “Derek, look around. The boy keeps his clothes in paper bags. He eats cereal for every meal. He barely sleeps and when he does, he has nightmares.”

Isaac wanted to ask how Peter knew that, but he wasn't sure he wanted the answers.

“Can I go?” Isaac asked awkwardly, pointing towards the door.

“ _No_ ,” they both said firmly, and werewolf or not, it was the kind of tone that made teenage boys sit down and pay attention. It either meant he was in trouble or he was about to be in trouble.

Derek stood in the doorway, back straight and eyes focused, asserting dominance over the room. Isaac sobered under his influence and Peter sat respectfully at attention, but he didn't owe his nephew anything.

“Peter, what are you doing with Isaac?”

Isaac was unaware that he and Peter were doing anything together, much less anything that needed some sort of clandestine pack meeting. He barely ever saw him after they went out for dinner, which hadn't culminated in much more than delicious pork fried rice and a few casual questions about how Scott was doing.

But Peter apparently had something else in mind. “Isaac is strong, and he needs to be treated like a strong wolf. I can train him better than you can.”

Isaac felt strangely blindsided. He was loyal to Derek, through and through, and he saw Derek’s eyes flash red. “We didn't really discuss this, Derek. I never agreed to anything.”

“What makes you think Isaac wants you to train him? What are you training him for, anyways? Murder? Reanimation?” Derek was struggling to stay calm, and Isaac was practically buckling under the tension in the room.

“Can we ask Isaac what he wants?” Isaac said meekly, but he went ignored.

“Look at him, Derek. You fucking terrify the kid. How is he going to learn to stand up for himself if you scare the piss out of him?” Peter was completely calm, floating in his own private pool of serenity, and Isaac envied him.

“That’s not true! I’m not afraid of Derek.” Isaac’s face burned red.

“I know that you would roll over like a bitch if Derek asked—“

There was probably a tail end to that sentence, but Peter was flat out on the floor, the couch tipped end over end, a sun-ray of red haloing out from Peter’s head as Isaac slammed it into the hard floor again and again.

Isaac only saw red—red over his eyes, red on the floor, red in the anger that radiated from a soft, dark place in his chest, blooming like a poppy as he bled it out into Peter.

“ _Don’t you ever say that to me again! Don’t say that to me! Don’t—_ “

Isaac was airborne, a hand wrapped around his throat, but he still scratched and kicked like a rabid dog.

“Calm down, Isaac, calm down _right_ now,” Derek roared, teetering precariously on the edge of angry werewolf to full-on alpha, wrapping his arms around Isaac, immobilizing him.

Peter laughed where he lay on the floor, his skull already piecing itself together. “This is exactly what I mean, Derek! You baby him! Let him beat the shit out of me!”

Derek calmed down, his heartbeat thrumming back to a normal pace, and let Isaac go. 

“Well?” Peter stayed on the floor and crossed his arms behind his head, sweeping the blood across the floor like a macabre snow angel. “What are you waiting for?”

Isaac wanted to punch something. He wanted to scream until his throat bled, he wanted to break his own bones and watch them crack back together. He was so angry, and humiliated, and he was already so _exhausted_.

“I’m out of here,” he said, his voice husky. “Fuck you both.”

*

On the night before the full moon, Isaac found Derek at the old Hale house again.

It worried Isaac how much Derek still went back there. Sometimes he’d come out of the woods and see Derek just staring at the half-charred house, his jaw slack and his eyes bewildered, like he didn't know how he got there.

“I thought I heard something,” he said every time, and Isaac learned not to ask questions.

But on that bright night, Isaac cleared his throat and declared, “I want to spend this full moon with Peter.”

He didn't phrase it as a question.

Derek’s face remained grim and emotionless. “If that’s what you want, then I won’t try to stop you.”

“Since when? Three days ago I thought you were going to turn Peter into a meatloaf.”

“Since he got you to practically shift on command.” There was a twinge of pride in Derek’s voice.

Isaac thought back to the day of the fight in the loft. He didn't remember how quickly his eyes went from clear grey to blazing blue or how neatly his claws slid back into fingernails, but it must have been faster than ever before.

“He asked you to attack him and you instantly shifted back. It was like flipping a switch.” Derek stared at the house and Isaac desperately wanted to know what he was looking for.

“I don’t want to hurt people, Derek. I just got so mad, and there was blood everywhere. What if it isn't Peter next time? What if it’s someone who can’t defend themselves?”

“You just answered your own question. You don’t want to hurt people. But you’re a werewolf, and there will be times when the human part of you loses to the animal part.”

Isaac thought for a moment. “I think that’s why I want to start training with Peter.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Do you think Peter will show you control?”

Isaac shook his head. “ _You_ show me control. Peter will show me what to do when I lose it.”

Derek nodded, a small smile on his lips. “You want him to challenge you.”

Isaac started to nod, and then thought about what he asked Peter before.

_And you think you can challenge me?_

He let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Well, shit. The bastard was right.”

Derek nodded again, still staring at the damn house. “It sucks, doesn't it?”

Isaac made a move to leave, to go back to Derek’s loft and think hard on his life choices, when Derek said, “Sometimes, I think I hear them. In the house.”

Isaac didn't know what to say, so he gently grasped Derek’s bicep and watched the black marks move up his own arm and sink into his body.

His alpha was in so much pain, and Isaac could only suck up so much of that poison.

*

“I didn't actually think you had a house,” Isaac said with a hint of surprise as Peter let him through the front door.

“Where did you think I lived, the dump? Or in an abandoned train car like my Neanderthal of a nephew?” Peter took Isaac’s bag from his shoulder and hung it up on the coat rack next to the door.

Peter lived in a small, white two-bedroom house downtown, as far away from the forest as he could get. The door and shutters were painted deep red and the lawn was kept neat, but the interior was Spartan in its simplicity and completely void of any personal touches.

Isaac was still working on shaking his image of Peter as a wild beast who lived off the land and brainwashed teenage girls for fun. He couldn't imagine Peter Hale cooking dinner in a big kitchen or watching the news in his pajamas and socks in the living room, and it was almost alarming to see Peter in such enclosed, bright spaces. He always seemed the type to have a dark cloud following him around, accompanied by daunting organ music and a black cat.

“Where do you spend the full moon?”

“The basement is empty and built like a bomb shelter. I’ll show you later. Right now, we’re eating. I’m going to make you something while you sit and watch TV.” Peter disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Isaac standing in the foyer.

“But…” Isaac called weakly before Peter yelled, “Sit down, Isaac, you’re already being a pain in my ass.”

Isaac sat obediently on one of the leather armchairs. The TV was already on, the volume low, and Isaac tucked his legs beneath his body and forced himself to relax.

“Why aren't you relaxing?” Peter called from the kitchen.

Isaac let out a frustrated groan. “I’m trying! Give me a second!”

“Does the full moon always make you this tense?”

Isaac thought for a moment and couldn't recall the last time he had _not_ been tense. “I don’t really know.” He heard the clang of the oven door being closed and Peter came back into the living room.

“We’re going to work on that. This is for you. It’s your bible now.” Peter handed him a black and white notebook and a pen.

“It’s blank,” Isaac said, thumbing through the pages.

Peter nodded. “You’re going to write in it every day. You’ll track your moods, your shifts, your patterns of anger and relaxation. By the end of the year, you’ll know your wolf better than you know yourself.”

Isaac raised his eyebrows. “You gave me a diary?”

“Trust me on this one. Everyone in my family kept one of these during their first year or so. It works.”

“Why didn't Derek have us do it?”

“Derek’s lucky if he remembers where his dick is half the time. He’s more about the muscle than about the brains. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I’m a firm believer that brains come before brawn.” 

He walked over to a small bookshelf in the corner and grabbed another book, handing it to Isaac. “This is a Farmer’s Almanac. Primitive, sure, but it’ll help you keep track of what stage of the moon cycle we’re in.”

Isaac blushed. “Erica used to do that for us.”

Peter nodded, unaffected. “The strongest werewolves I've ever met have been women and girls. Their bodies are made to handle cycles and they adapt to the changes three times faster than men. But it’s good for men to acclimate to a monthly schedule as well. We don’t have it built into our biology.”

“When should I start writing?”

Peter checked his watch, and then looked out the big bay window at the dusky sky. “I’d say right about now, before you lose focus. We’ll eat soon.”

Isaac opened his notebook to the first blank page and put the date at the top. 

He picked up the pen, paused, and put it back down.

He picked it up again and wrote two sentences.

_Full Moon tonight. I can feel it burn again._

He closed the book and leaned back on the couch. 

He was still morbidly tense.

*

“God, Isaac, just take what you want! Stop thinking for one second and just _take what you want_!” Peter’s eyes burned blue as he yelled at Isaac, swore at him, egged him on like a bully in the schoolyard.

Isaac’s vision boiled red and he clenched his teeth. _We’re sliding into the danger zone, buddy, we have to slow it down a little_. “What do you want from me?”

Peter howled, actually _howled_ in frustration, slamming a fist against the wall until the bricks cracked. “No! Don’t ask me that! Fucking take what you want, Isaac, put your anger into something, but don’t just fucking sit there!”

Isaac was going mad with it, mad with the need to tear something apart, mad with the need to destroy everything and everyone, and he flew at Peter, snapping his teeth at him like a piranha. 

“Who are you mad at, Isaac? Why are you angry? Tear something apart, but focus your anger and let it go! Push everything you have into it and don’t stop!”

He was boiling, frothing, clawing at the walls, but he didn’t go towards Peter again. He wasn’t mad at Peter, he wasn’t mad at _anything_. He hated it, the aimless anger with no target. He writhed on the floor, tearing apart the floorboards, howling with need and pain and sadness, his mind completely blank except for the firefly sparks that burst across his vision.

Isaac had a threshold. There was only so much of that hatred, that red poison, that his body could take until something snapped and it drained out of him, evaporated into exhaustion and restless sadness.

“I can’t! I can’t do this, don’t make me do this!” Isaac’s claws disappeared. His eyes shifted back and his face softened. And he sobbed, like a child, in a heap on the floor. “I want to go home, Peter. I’m weak, I’m fucking useless, I can’t do this!”

Peter pulled him up off the floor by his armpits and slung him over his shoulder as easily as he would a sack of flour. “You’re not going home. We’re going to sleep, and we’re trying this again tomorrow night.”

Isaac beat his fists against Peter’s back, throwing a tantrum like a little kid and not caring one bit. His clothes were in tatters, his arms gouged with deep wounds from his own claws that were healing slowly. “I hate you! God, I can’t fucking _stand_ you, Peter!”

“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” Peter said calmly, tossing Isaac onto the guest room bed. “Are you going to undress, or do you need me to help?”

“Fuck off,” snapped Isaac, yanking his shoes off.

He thought Peter would leave, but instead, he grasped Isaac’s chin firmly in one hand and titled his face to look him in the eye. Isaac was surprised to see them blaze blue, hot and molten and stronger than he’d ever seen them.

“If I hear you say you’re useless one more time, we’re done here. I won’t help you anymore. Got it?”

Isaac swallowed heavily and nodded, jerking his face free from Peter’s hand.

Peter turned to leave, but before he closed the bedroom door and locked it, he said, “And don’t let Derek hear you say that. It would break his fucking heart.”

*

Isaac woke up the next morning with a headache, his muscles sore. It was almost ten o’clock.

His sleep was heavy and black, but he didn't feel any less tense.

Before he even opened his eyes, he sensed a presence in the room. Cracking one eye open, he saw Peter sitting at the end of the bed, his back to Isaac.

He was shirtless and deep scratches covered his back, the wounds closed but still encrusted with dried blood. His hair was a mess of dirt and leaves.

Peter spent the full moon in the woods.

“That can’t happen again, Isaac,” Peter said, his voice even but dripping with warning.

Isaac sat up slowly, his muscles tight. “What can’t happen again?”

“If you keep denying your wolf anger, it will kill you. Wolves aren't meant to be captive on the full moon, and one day, it will break free, and you’ll be the victim.” Peter didn't move as he spoke.

“I’m trying, Peter,” Isaac said softly. He pulled back the blankets and knelt on the bed, wanting to move closer to Peter but not knowing how.

Peter’s voice had lost its warning tone, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “I know. I know you are, Isaac.”

Isaac’s body melted underneath his words. 

_I know you’re trying_. 

There was no push, no snap, no bite or bark. 

Peter understood him.

Isaac knew, right then and there, exactly what he wanted.

Slowly, his crawled towards the end of the bed. With shaking fingers, he rested his hands on Peter’s broad shoulders, not caring about the blood or dirt. Peter’s skin was blazing hot and silky to the touch, and the heat flooded into Isaac and made him boneless with want.

Peter didn't move. He didn't tense.

He exhaled once, deeply.

Isaac leaned forward and pressed his lips to the spot between Peter’s shoulder blades, right over one of the deepest gashes. It was a feather-light kiss, the barest touch of skin on skin, but when Isaac added pressure, he felt the pain seep out of Peter, absorbing itself into Isaac’s body and dissolving into nothing.

He moved his lips to Peter’s left shoulder, then his right. Peter breathed deeply, the scent of his arousal filtering through the room, mixing with Isaac’s own scent.

When Isaac landed one last kiss at the base of Peter’s neck, Peter murmured, low and hot, “Come here, Isaac.”

Isaac moved around Peter on the bed and slid easily into his lap, straddling Peter’s strong body with his own. He felt small, unbelievably small, even though he and Peter were about the same height. Peter’s strength filled the room and he wrapped his arms tight around Isaac’s body, pulling him flush against his chest. He ran his hands up and down Isaac’s bare back, leaving trails of liquid heat trickling down Isaac’s spine, before cupping Isaac’s face in his palms.

Isaac could barely hold Peter’s gaze, his eyes were a molten blue that bore into Isaac like hot coals, unrelenting but not unkind. Peter’s jaw was slack and the faintest sound of a growl hummed low in his throat.

“Is this what you want, Isaac?” He sounded strangled, half-there, and Isaac could feel that he was completely hard inside his jeans.

Isaac nodded slowly, licking his lips, wanting to devour and be devoured. “More than anything.”

And then Peter did growl, unmistakable, and flipped Isaac on his back on the bed, the blankets puffing out around them in a warm white cocoon. His mouth went right to Isaac’s neck, biting more than kissing, something much more primitive than moon cycles or mythology.

“Wait…wait a second,” Isaac gasped, but he only bared his neck further, sinking sweetly into something like submission, only much more passionate. Peter stilled, looking up into Isaac’s eyes.

Isaac swallowed, and Peter tracked the movement of Isaac’s Adam’s apple with hot eyes. “I've never really had a kiss before. Not a real one, anyways.”

It wasn't completely true. Isaac kissed Erica and Boyd a few times, chaste kisses with slick lips and secret smiles, but it never felt like romance. They were kisses shared by people who were so close they were almost the same person, but not close enough to be real lovers. They were safe little kisses shared when love got so big it was filling the room with its heat that the only way to make it dissolve was through some kind of human contact.

Peter smiled, but it was a nice smile, not a mocking smirk. “Can I kiss you, Isaac?”

Isaac nodded. “Yes, please.”

And god, it was perfect.

Isaac realized that this was what everyone meant when they said people fell in lust, not love. Peter’s jaw was firm and his tongue was hot and slicing, his hand sure as it tilted Isaac’s chin, directing him which way to move his lips and tongue. Peter was a patient and sure-handed instructor and Isaac lost himself in the kiss, not caring that his head felt light from lack of air.

He pulled away slightly and let Peter nip at his bottom lip. A small moan escaped from Isaac’s throat and his neck and chest burned with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment.

“I know this is the last thing you want to hear right now,” Peter said in a hushed whisper, his lips still brushing against Isaac’s, “but I want you to let go. Don’t hold back on me. Let it all out.”

Isaac went pliant beneath him. He closed his mouth, rejecting Peter’s next kiss, and wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck.

He spread his legs around Peter’s hips, allowing Peter to settle his hard weight against Isaac’s body, offering him every part of himself. The sun came in through the blinds, casting milky stripes across their bodies, and Peter smiled, so slow and sure.

His voice just as sure as Peter’s smile, Isaac said, “I want to make you come.”

Peter groaned against Isaac’s neck and Isaac reached between their bodies, tugging at the zipper on Peter’s jeans. It was like he was feverish with it, hot like when he lost himself in anger, but he’d never felt so relaxed before, so sure of his movements, so _in control_.

Jerking another guy off wasn't much different than jerking himself off, but Isaac knew right away that he liked doing it. Peter was iron-hard and hot in his hand, feeling big enough to destroy Isaac, but Isaac loved the power of it, figuring out how to touch Peter to coax out more of those overwhelmed groans. 

He was the one making Peter slam his hands down on the bed next to Isaac’s head. 

He was the one making Peter growl out half-formed instructions of _faster, tighter, there you go, perfect, ugh, perfect_.

Isaac was hard in his boxers but he didn't care, was too overwhelmed with Peter to even think about getting off. Isaac moved his hand on Peter’s cock, rubbing his thumb on the pearl of pre-come beading at the slit, and ducked his head against Peter’s neck, kissing his throat.

“You’ll fuck me next time,” Isaac huffed into Peter’s skin, grinning madly, and Peter came with a groan, bracing himself on his elbows above Isaac, his hair wild and his eyes shut tight.

Isaac touched his own stomach and lifted his hand to his mouth; tasting Peter’s come, letting it slick his lips. He didn't mind it—it was dirty, filthy, but he felt sexy and wanted and completely sated.

Peter smiled and groaned again. “You’re going to kill me, Isaac.”

Isaac grinned, wide and a little dirty. “But you will fuck me next time, right?”

Peter leaned down and kissed Isaac firmly on the mouth. When he pulled away, he asked, “Is that what you want?”

Isaac closed his eyes and curled up next to Peter, resting his head on Peter’s chest, ignoring the sticky mess on his stomach.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want.”

*

They spent all afternoon in the guest bedroom, making a mess of the sheets and blankets, kissing and napping and tussling with each other on the bed but stopping when it got too heated. The blankets ended up caked in dried blood and dirt, wiped from Peter’s sweaty body, and there was blood and dirt beneath Isaac’s fingernails and in his hair. What they needed was a meal and a shower, but neither of them made a move to leave the room.

Peter was still so unknown to Isaac, still thrumming with a red warning of danger and mystery. He wanted to ask Peter if he had a wife and kids before the fire. He wanted to ask what it was like to grow up as a werewolf. He wanted to ask about Laura Hale.

But another part of him just wanted to push Peter back on the bed and mount his cock like an animal in heat.

“That’s the moon talking,” Peter kept saying whenever Isaac felt a spike of arousal after Peter touched the nape of his neck, the small of his back, the curve of his lips. 

“Is it the same for you?” Isaac huffed in retaliation, arching his back and groaning as Peter wrapped a hand around his cock.

“It gets better,” Peter said with a small laugh. Isaac buried his face into the musty-sweet crook of Peter’s neck and mouthed the flesh wildly, sucking and biting like he was anchoring himself to Peter, turning the skin into a saliva-slick plane of quickly-fading love bites.

As Isaac came with a small shout, Peter said, “I don’t know why, but with you, Isaac, it feels like my first full moon all over again.”

Well, _that_. That sent shivers up and down Isaac’s spine like nothing he’d ever felt before.

It was nice.

*

As the sky darkened and the moon started fading into view in the distance, Isaac felt that heat itch back into his veins. 

“We really need to go back to the basement, Peter. I’ll destroy your house,” Isaac contested meekly, but Peter just pulled the blankets around Isaac and then sat at the foot of the bed, his legs curled beneath his body like a pretzel.

“You’ll be fine. Start writing, it’s almost time. Write down everything you’re feeling.” 

Isaac sat in the bed, his notebook open in his lap, and tried to write.

_Apparently, Full Moon makes me irresistible to P. Hale. This is good progress._

He looked up at Peter, but Peter was staring out the window at the sky again.

_V. horny. Might be a regular thing now?_

_Tired. Warm. Long day. Good day._

_Full Moon again tonight._

_Full Moon._

_Full Moon._

_Moon._

Isaac’s brain exploded into a starburst of colors, a spark of memories that seemed to only replay the events of the past twelve hours.

That was the only thing that existed anymore. Twelve hours of his life.

Hot pink kisses, blue eyes, red trails of color down the soft white expanse of a bare back. Moans that made the crescendo to sirens, wailing away in his skull, making Isaac wince and groan.

Peter was there next to him, but he wasn't, he was a presence that Isaac grasped onto but didn't comprehend.

“This is good, Isaac. Keep doing what you’re doing. This is perfect.” Peter’s voice was that of the patient teacher, oozing with confidence, getting Isaac hard in his jeans without even trying.

Before chucking his notebook at the wall, the pen exploding in a splatter of blue ink, Isaac saw the last page he’d used.

Five marks, made with jagged lines, the ink tearing through the page.

Claw marks.

The wolf was in the room.

*

Everything was red again.

Isaac screamed and Peter’s body was against his, warm and solid, and Isaac pushed back, every muscle wailing, his adrenaline peeling off in layers as he pushed and pushed.

Isaac screamed, and Peter screamed back.

They howled together.

The red in Isaac’s mind gushed into the room, spilling onto the perfect white carpet, the white walls, the white pillows and blankets. It filled up the space, expanding like gas, smothering and drowning him at the same time. He tried to push his face above the red but it filled his lungs.

Isaac floated in the sea of red, grasping at objects that rushed past him in the current but never catching any of them.

A fistful of congealed wolfsbane petals.

A leather jacket.

A pair of bent wire-rimmed glasses.

Then, a hand. Big, strong, with human fingernails, no claws.

Isaac grasped onto it and the hand grasped back, pulling him to the surface.

Isaac took a deep breath, and the world went black.

*

Isaac started awake; his hands fisted into warm cotton, his face pressed into something warm and soft.

“Peter?”

“I’m here. Don’t get up too fast, you’re exhausted,” Peter’s voice said from above him.

Isaac was curled in Peter’s lap, hands gripping the back of his tee shirt, his face buried in the crook of Peter’s neck. He was wound around him like an octopus, drenched in sweat, clinging to him like he would drift away without it.

“God, when will it end?” Isaac groaned, squeezing his eyes shut tighter.

“It’s done, Isaac. Look outside. It’s over,” Peter said, kissing Isaac’s hair.

Isaac’s eyes flew open and sunlight blinded him, pouring into the room through the open window, a soft breeze fluttering the curtains.

He sat up, peeling his sticky body away from Peter, and gave Peter a wide-eyed stare. “But…but the moon…”

Peter laughed and squeezed Isaac in a tight hug. “See? It only hurts for a second if you just let it go. You’re done.”

Isaac sat back on the bed and looked around. The walls were clean; the sheets were mostly in one piece with a few tears here and there. One pillow met its feathery demise, but the rest were unharmed. His notebook lay in shreds, though, and his let out a dismayed sigh.

Following his line of sight, Peter simply shrugged and said, “I bought extras.”

Isaac swept a hand through his damp hair. _I swear, I was in this bed and I was writing, and now it’s morning_.

“What happened?”

Peter stood up and stretched his back. “You just held on to me, Isaac. You pushed it all towards me, and I pushed back.”

“That’s all?” Isaac was dumbstruck.

“That’s all. You just had to focus. Come on, let’s get breakfast,” Peter said, but Isaac launched himself off the bed and planted a searing, sloppy kiss on Peter’s mouth. Peter kissed back enthusiastically, squeezing Isaac’s hips in his hands.

Those hands. Those big hands that pulled Isaac out of the red.

“Thank you,” he whispered into Peter’s ear.

“No problem, kid,” Peter answered, and they went downstairs and ate the biggest damn breakfast Isaac ever had.

*

Isaac let himself inside Derek’s loft and shut the door softly behind him. He wanted to sleep for a week before confronting Derek, but to no avail, he was instantly bombarded.

“You didn't call me once, Isaac,” Derek said, his face dark. His eyes were bloodshot and he had an impressive beard for only two days of growth.

Isaac rolled his eyes. “Sorry, I was too busy being a werewolf.”

“Don’t give me that. The full moon isn't out for forty-eight hours straight. What happened? Where’s Peter?”

Isaac tossed his bag onto the couch. “He’s at his house, asleep, which is what I want to be right now.”

Right before he collapsed onto the sofa, Derek grabbed his collar and leaned in, sniffing deeply. Isaac gulped. He knew Derek would smell Peter all over him, even after a shower, but hoped that he would chalk it up to sparring or fighting during the shift.

Instead Derek gave him a bewildered look and lifted Isaac’s arm, smelling his armpit.

“Ugh, Derek, what the hell,” Isaac winced, trying to pull away, but Derek got on his knees and smelled Isaac’s stomach through his shirt. “ _Derek_!”

Derek stood up and sighed, long and deep. “Why are you trying to make me miserable?”

“This has very little to do with you, thank god. What does it matter?”

“He’ll mess with your head, Isaac. I don’t think he’s going to help you with your shifts.”

Isaac turned to head to the bathroom for a nice, long shower. “He already did.”

*

Peter remembered what Isaac told him on the full moon, and he delivered in spades.

“Oh my God…P-Peter, I can’t… _Peter_ …”

Isaac was rendered fully incoherent in Peter’s bed ( _Peter’s_ bed, his own big bed, not the guest room), his face flushed, his cock hard against his stomach as Peter held his hips and pulled him firmly down onto his length.

“Use your words,” Peter said into Isaac’s hair, nipping his ear.

“ _I have none_!” Isaac wailed, grabbing onto Peter’s shoulders. He never imagined sex could be something like this—deep, sweaty, heady, full of laughter and swearing and tangled limbs and fluids and embarrassing noises, a thousand different sensations exploding around him at once.

“God, you’re just as sweet as I thought you would be,” Peter hissed, flipping Isaac onto his back with a growl and hitching Isaac’s legs high around his hips. “How are you so fucking _tight_?”

“I don’t really do this…ever,” Isaac admitted, panting like the thirsty little slut he was slowly morphing into. He didn't even have the decency to be embarrassed about it.

“Oh, I know. You just…” Peter thrust hard, and Isaac arched into him. “You just keep surprising me.”

Isaac smiled and licked a line down Peter’s neck.

Half an hour later, they lay sweaty and tangled in bed, draped all over each other. Peter’s hands kept wandering down Isaac’s back, sliding into his cleft, teasing him where he was still wet and open. Isaac slapped his hand away.

“Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Not of you,” Peter said, pulling Isaac closer.

They lay in silence for a while until Isaac said, before thinking, “I feel so much stronger lately.”

When Peter didn't respond, he continued. “But sometimes I still feel useless.”

Silence.

After a long, heated moment, Peter sat up, urging Isaac up with him. “I talked to Derek the other day.”

“And by talk, I’m sure you mean bare-knuckle street fighting.”

“We were in a parking lot.”

“Much better.”

“I talked to Derek and he said that he missed you on the full moon. He felt your absence.”

Isaac leaned back against the headboard. “He’s been through a hundred shifts without me; I don’t know why he’d miss me now.”

Peter frowned. “You’re his beta, Isaac. And you’re all he has right now.” He rubbed his eyes and took Isaac’s hand in his own, an oddly gentle gesture. “I want to spend the full moon together. All three of us.”

“I don’t know how Derek will feel about that.”

“I already talked to him. He’s considering it. He understands now.” Peter kissed him gently on the ear, then again on his jaw. “He understands what you need.”

“And I need you?” Isaac teased.

Peter smiled. “You need to be surrounded by people who value you.”

Isaac felt that stir in his chest again, the warm bloom that radiated throughout his whole body, making his toes curl and his eyes water. He could‘ve argued with Peter, asked him why he cared, insisted he only wanted sex or companionship. He could’ve pushed him away, kept him close but inches away like he did with Erica and Boyd.

Instead, Isaac wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist and snuggled deeper into his embrace.

“Sounds good to me,” he said, and closed his eyes.

As he slept, his dreams were bright and clear and bathed in blue.

**Author's Note:**

> Every author makes mistakes! Let me know if you see anything that needs editing. Title comes from "Arienette" by Bright Eyes.


End file.
